


l'Accordeoniste

by glioscarnach



Category: History Boys (2006), History Boys - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, Pre-Slash, does this count as songfic if the song is already in the film, for the sake of my dignity i hope not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 13:47:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12459066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glioscarnach/pseuds/glioscarnach
Summary: I made the mistake of looking up the lyrics to l'Accordeoniste and... this happened.





	l'Accordeoniste

Don had always had terrible French; he’d switched to German anyway, once he’d got into Cutlers’. It was the accent, mostly – or so he deduced from his primary school French master’s poorly–concealed winces whenever he’d been called upon to speak in class. He’d never taken it personally – he wasn’t romantic enough for French in the first place –but when David starts into his Piaf phase, he finds he does regret his inability to make much sense of the lyrics.

‘What’s that bit, then?’ he’s asking David, when they’ve given up for a bit on _l’Accordeoniste_ and are nominally working on essays instead. David, he suspects, actually _is_ working; Don’s got the empty record sleeve and is squinting a little at the tiny, untranslated lyrics on the back.

‘Mm?’

‘I’m not going to try and pronounce it,’ he huffs out a laugh, and tosses David the record sleeve, Frisbee-style. The horrified squawk has him giggling properly; serves David right for being a twat earlier and trying to get him to read the lyrics aloud.

‘Tosser,’ David says fondly. ‘You mean the song we’re learning? It’s about lost love.’

‘Of course,’ Don rolls his eyes. ‘French for you.’

‘Shut up. I was saying, it’s lost love – this prostitute’s in love with an accordion player, but he goes and dies in the war, basically.’

‘Why would anyone be in love with an _accordion_ player?’ Don is incredulous. ‘Of all things!’

‘French for you,’ echoes David, primly. ‘Anyway, she’s in love with – she likes looking at him, when he’s playing. His hands. It’s like magic.’ He ducks his head then, a bit, but Don can still see his ears redden. He supposes it’s about Dakin; most songs are, lately.

‘So…’ Don asks, after slightly too long of a silence. ‘Which are you, then?’

‘ _You’re_ hardly the prostitute,’ David retorts, chucking the record sleeve back at him. ‘Put it on again, will you?’

‘Fuck off,’ says Don, and duly obliges. Music fills the room again, and Don finds himself unable to focus properly on his biography of Thomas More.

(If he spends an hour with his sister’s old French dictionary and a hastily-copied-out page of Piaf lyrics later, well. Nobody has to know.)

**Author's Note:**

> Not to tinhat but Pos is literally singing about ~the beautiful hands of the musician~ at the point in that scene where Scripps starts grinning, and I have been stewing in that knowledge for Too Long now so hi lads suffer with me.


End file.
